


like a good neighbor

by erebones



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 07:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17783492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Caleb is a reclusive screenwriter who spends most of his time on his porch with his cat by his side and a pen in his hand, but he's torn from his usual habits when a very handsome half-orc moves in across the street.





	like a good neighbor

**Author's Note:**

> For Morgan aka @morganzephyr999 for the 2019 Widofjord Valentine's exchange!! I took great liberties with "cold, quiet, daylight" and wrote Caleb as I've wanted to for a long time: basically that scruffy neighbor in the Princess Diaries who's always writing in a notebook next to a trash can. Extreme Caleb vibes.

_Tap tap tap._ Caleb’s pen tick-tocks against the page like a clock whose battery is starting to run out of steam. _Tap. Tap… tap…_

Nothing. Nothing is coming to him. His brain is an empty sieve, his hands as gnarled and useless as old leather. He’s a hack. A failure.

“Mrrp?”

The touch of a soft cat-paw on his knees brings him back to reality with a jerk, and his aged lawn chair creaks menacingly beneath his weight. “ _Hallo,_ Frumps,” he sighs. He sets his notepad aside, balanced on the weatherbeaten railing of his front porch, and pats his knee. “Come on up.”

With another contented chirp, Frumpkin leaps up and turns thrice in a circle before settling himself across Caleb’s bony knees. A rumbling purr has already started up as Caleb settles a hand against his back and begins to stroke.

“You’re the only one who really understands me,” he sighs, sparing a longing glance for his notebook. Goddamn writer’s block…

Before he can sink too much further into his well of lonely self-flagellation, an unfamiliar sound reaches his ears: the rhythmic _fwapfwapfwap_ of trainers on pavement. He curls his lip instinctively—bloody _joggers_ and their _jogging_ , so smug and proud of themselves. He’s lived on this quiet back street for years and seen his fair share of sporting young folk trotting along with their noses in the air, sweating attractively through thin latex and moisture-wicking triblends like they own the place. He usually finds that a balmy nine-thirty AM is too late in the day for such activities; it’s just his luck that his calm, sunbathed morning is about to be interrupted.

It takes all of a heartbeat for his sour mood to be turned on its head. Around the corner come trotting two figures: a short, stout, barrel-chested Rottweiler with a doofy, delighted grin plastered across its jowls, and a man Caleb presumes is the owner, an equally sturdy, equally barrel-chested half-orc. He’s dressed for the occasion in a scoop-neck tank top and a pair of tiny running shorts, and he is sweating lightly as he jogs effortlessly down the street.

Caleb’s mouth is abruptly very dry.

“Don’t make eye contact,” he tells Frumpkin sternly. Frumpkin twitches an ear at him and continues to snooze. “I know how you feel about dogs, so I am just telling you, it’s best to keep sleeping.” He eyes the dog, tongue lolling joyfully, trimmed claws clicking along the sidewalk. “A fearsome beast indeed… it would eat you in one bite, Frumpkin.”

Frumpkin’s tail flicks lazily.

“Howdy!” says the half-orc. Caleb jumps again, provoking a discontented growl and the unforgiving dig of claws into his thigh. He grimaces and bites back a curse. The half-orc’s friendly smile slips and he averts his gaze as he runs past the house and disappears down the streets.

“Frumpkin,” Caleb sighs, tipping his head back against the chair, “I’m going to die alone.”

><

Caleb dithers the next morning as he prepares for his daily ritual. Wake up at 5:30, make coffee, do some light editing, answer emails. Shower and breakfast at 8:30, then out to the porch to write until noon. Usually he spends most of his day in comfy leggings and tee under a ragged bathrobe—his neighbors are used to his habits, and he’s long since given up caring overmuch about his appearance—but today he finds himself hesitating as he starts to dress.

“I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I,” he says as Frumpkin coils around his feet and whines to be let out. “I’ve already scared him off, there’s no point in fussing.”

“Mrow,” says Frumpkin. “Maa!”

“Well, that’s me told.” Shaking his head a little at his own foolishness, Caleb grabs his oldest, rattiest, coziest bathrobe, a horrid brown terry cloth monstrosity that saw him through writing his first two screenplays, and drapes it over his shoulders. “Come along, Frumpkin. Once more unto the breach.”

A combination of nerves (intolerable) and coziness (satisfactory) spur his pen, and today is far more productive than the day before. In his experience, off days are common; off _weeks_ , sometimes, when he’s bogged down in the early, tangled stages of a new project. Today a plot hook enters the scene in the form of a potential love interest. A beautiful neighbor, with a mysterious past that drives the protagonist to poke his nose into places it shouldn’t be…

Like clockwork, he hears the thud of trainers on pavement, underscored by the quick _clickclickclick_ of claws and the harsh panting of a happy dog. He bends more studiously over his notebook, pen scratching along as mutters the words under his breath:

> _The HANDSOME STRANGER comes to the window and looks out, an unlit cigarette in hand. He is poised, contemplative. BREN leans against his rake and watches as—_

“Howdy!”

The repeat of yesterday’s greeting is so unexpected—especially after Caleb’s perceived rudeness—that Caleb yelps and drops his pen entirely. He watches as it goes rolling across the porch and bounces forlornly down the steps.

The half-orc grinds to a stop, and so does the dog, a few paces behind. “Shit, I’m sorry. Was that my fault?” He’s only a few steps from where the pen lays on the sidewalk—it’s easy for him to bend over and scoop it up in one large hand. His dog sniffs the spot where it had lain and plops down with a little sigh. “Here. Sorry again, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s all right,” Caleb says faintly. “I’m, erm, a bit skittish by nature.” He is intensely regretting his sartorial choices as he meets the man halfway and takes the pen from his fingers. A closer look reveals a strong jaw but a soft mouth, and eyes that look like they smile easily. His hair, a bit sweat-damp, curls charmingly over a scar on his forehead. Caleb gets a whiff of warm man-smell and thinks he might need to sit down. “I’m Caleb, by the way,” he hears himself say. Thank god for autopilot.

“Nice to meet you, Caleb.” Lord, his voice is _deep_. Deep and slow like honey just on the verge of melting. “Name’s Fjord. I, ah, just moved in across the way.” He gestures to the townhouse kitty-corner from Caleb’s.

“Ah! Yes. I saw the moving truck,” Caleb says, even though he hadn’t. He’s terrible at noticing things that don’t pertain to him.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Fjord says again. He seems to realize he’s repeated himself and blushes, if an anxious twitch of the ears and smart white teeth at his bruise-green lower lip can be considered _blushing_. “Um. That’s my dog, Sally. She’s a sweetheart, but I know some people are scared of bigger dogs so I won’t be offended if you’d rather not meet her.”

Truthfully Caleb isn’t much a dog person, but Fjord—still sweaty, still panting slightly, still wearing those frankly _obscene_ ly short shorts—looks so boyishly hopeful that he can’t refuse. “I don’t mind—dogs,” he says, the lie hitching in the back of his throat, and Fjord beams like a sunrise.

“Here, Sal, come meet our neighbor.” He snaps his fingers and she springs to her feet, eager but contained. Only her stub of a tail and her wiggling hindquarters betray her excitement as Caleb descends another step or two. Frumpkin sits on the edge of the top stair and glares, fur slightly poofed around his ruff, but makes no complaint as Caleb holds his hand out for Sally to sniff.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your run.” Caleb pulls back and discreetly wipes his slobbery hand on his robe when he’s deemed the doggy greeting to be complete.

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ve been wanting to stop by and introduce myself, anyway.” Fjord shrugs cheerfully and smears the flop of hair out of his face with one hand. Caleb catches a flash of dark underarm hair and tears his eyes away, cheeks burning. “We’re neighbors after all, right? I’ll get out of your hair, though. See you around?”

“Ah— _ja_ , certainly. I’m sure we will.”

He’s not proud of it, but his eyes follow Fjord’s shockingly round backside all the way down the street until he turns the corner and disappears. Then, like he’s finally been given permission, he flops down onto the top step and puts his head in his hands.

“It’s no use, Frump. I’ve been alone too long, that’s all. I’m going stir-crazy.”

“Hrrrr.” Frumpkin butts his head against Caleb’s shoulder.

“That’s nice of you to say, but I’m a crazy recluse who talks to his cat and wears bathrobes every day. I’m not exactly a catch.”

“Mrrr!”

“You’re right, I should talk to a real person. It’s been a few days.” He scruffs Frumpkin tidily behind the ears and wonders if Beau might want to get lunch.

><

“So he’s fit, huh?” Beau says, and shoves a forkful of lettuce into her mouth. Caleb nods fervently.

“Extremely.”

“And he has a dog. That’s not great.”

“It’s a well-behaved dog.”

Beau stares at him, then bursts into raucous laughter. The people at the table next to them shoot her irritated looks, but she pays them no mind. “Dude, you’ve really got it bad. From what, a couple of _how you doing_ ’s and a wave?”

“He runs past every day,” Caleb mumbles, ears heating as he tries to defend himself. “You know I’m a recluse. I can’t help it that he’s the first interesting man I’ve met in years.”

“If by _interesting_ you mean he has a big di—”

“ _Beauregard_!”

“All right, all right. No need to pull out the full name, jeez.” Beau sets down her fork with crystalline precision and folds her hands together on the table. “Let’s look at this logically. He’s accessible, but he knows where you live, so if he turns out to be a creep you’re kind of stuck. Don’t glower at me! You love that house, I know it’ll take heaven and earth to move you out of it.”

“He has a kind face, Beau, I don’t think I’m going to have to take out a restraining order on him.”

“I’m _just saying_.” She sighs and taps her short, blunt nails against the Formica. “So he runs past at the beginning of his walk, not the end?”

“Both,” Caleb mutters, pulling his coffee closer toward him just for something to look at that isn’t Beau’s ‘thinking face.’ Which, without fail, always puts him in mind of constipation. “Other side of the road after, though.”

“I was gonna say you could invite him in for a drink of water or something, but… ooh! Put a bowl out!”

“Sorry?”

“For the dog, dumbass. A bowl of water, at the bottom of your porch steps. That’s the key, right? The dog. People are fuckin’ suckers for anyone nice to their pets. You should know.”

“Hmm. Maybe so.” Against his wishes, a spark of hope ignites in his chest. “Any other ideas, oh brilliant matchmaker?”

Beau purses her lips and regards him from across the table. Caleb tries not to fidget. “Caleb, I say this with all the love in my heart: you really do need a new wardrobe.”

><

The dog bowl works like a charm. At least if the intended purpose was to make Fjord even more cheerfully friendly towards him, but it feels a bit like cheating; if it _had_ worked to Beau’s specifications—and she had seemed convinced it would be a one-way ticket into Fjord’s painfully, wonderfully, _sinfully_ small shorts—he wouldn’t have felt honest about it. The harsh reality is, if Caleb wants to actually _talk_ to his neighbor, not just wave half-heartedly at his jiggling, retreating posterior, he’s going to have to do something about it. Something bold. Something _charismatic._

It takes Caleb a while to gather his courage. In the meantime, the days grow shorter, Fjord’s pants grow longer, and Caleb sells his next screenplay for a tidy enough sum that he decides it’s high time he properly winterize the house before his shutters come careening off the windows in the notoriously gale-force Zemnian winds.

Luck—or misfortune, depending on one’s point of view—finds him perched precariously halfway up a ladder in the cool of an autumn afternoon, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting cruelly in the window glass. The windows are new. Painfully so. They haven’t even been rained on yet, and the factory-fresh glass turns the sun like a razor straight into his cerebral cortex. Or something. With a muffled grunt of irritation, Caleb swipes the water from his eyes and brandishes his brand new cordless power drill at the shutters in question. Maybe, he thinks with an uncharacteristic amount of optimism, this is the sort of thing where one can fake it til they make it?

“Howdy!” says a familiar voice from below and behind him. Caleb startles and nearly drops the drill. “Easy there, it’s just me. Need me to hold the ladder?”

Caleb cranes his head around as best he can without losing his death grip on the ladder. It’s Fjord, of course—too late in the day for his running gear, but he’s still dressed down for a lazy weekend in, wearing sweatpants and a snug raglan that hugs his pectorals lovingly. He is freshly showered and smiling, his teeth _almost_ as blinding as the sun. Almost.

“Do I really appear so helpless that you felt the need to come offer your services?” Caleb asks, a bit more peevishly than he’d intended. Luckily, Fjord is used to his taciturnity by now, and just shrugs.

“I happened to look out my window and notice you didn’t have a spotter. That’s not safe, you know, even for an experienced handyman such as yourself.” He offers another one of those winning smiles that never fails to make Caleb’s heart skip a beat. Damn him. “Doing some light renovations?”

“Trying,” Caleb says—admits, really. Now that he has an audience, there’s no point in pretending he knows what the fuck he’s doing. “These shutters almost came off in the last windstorm, so I’m trying to, uh, batten down the hatches, as it were.”

“Well, I’ve got you snug and tight from down here,” Fjord says without a trace of irony. That almost makes it worse—if he’d said it with a wink and a nudge, at least Caleb could’ve laughed out loud without fear of incurring his derision.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt your day off with extra work…”

“Not a problem,” Fjord assures him. “It’s a nice day, anyway… cool, sunny, great view…”

Caleb’s knuckles go white around the rungs. “Sorry?”

“Your garden is really lovely,” Fjord says without missing a beat. “Do you tend it yourself?”

“I… ah… yes, I do. A good friend got me started but now I do it myself… something to do with the hands…” He trails off and examines the shutters again. There’s no way he’s _not_ going to make a fool of himself, so he might as well press on.

Despite the chill of the day, he works up a sweat fairly quickly. His sweater soaks up the sun like Frumpkin sprawled in the windowsill, and soon he can feel sweat trickling down his spine and into the waistband of his yoga pants. (Beau argued strenuously against the yoga pants. Caleb, who values slovenly comfort above all else, stood firm.) He manages to replace the screws on an entire shutter before he gives in.

“You good?” Fjord calls up when he sees Caleb setting down the drill and leaning more heavily against the ladder rungs.

“Fine! Just warm.” Moving precariously, feeling that at any moment the ladder could collapse beneath him, Caleb peels his sweater off and moves to tie it around his waist.

“I can take that!” Fjord says quickly. “You, erm, don’t want to upset your balance.”

Caleb suddenly wishes he had his phone on him. What he wouldn’t give for an emergency text to Beau for advice… Still, though he’s rusty with actual human interaction, he’s written plenty of trashy scenes like this when he was still a two-bit daytime television writer. He knows how this goes. With a self-conscious tug on his ribbed tank, he turns a bit and drops his sweater. Fjord is quick, snatching it out of the air before it can _phwumf_ on his head, and grins up at him like he’s told a hilarious joke.

“ _Danke_ ,” Caleb says, and turns back to his work.

Somehow, despite the handsome distraction steadying the base of the ladder, the rest of the project goes smoothly. Despite the sweat and the occasional spike of frustration, Caleb is even able to keep up a relatively steady stream of conversation. He learns that Fjord is a freshly retired contractor who made out like a bandit in a settlement with an oil company whose rig he’d been stationed on; he learns that Fjord is unaccustomed to the sedentary lifestyle and his morning runs are one of the few things keeping him sane in a new city with a wealth of time on his hands. He learns, too, that Fjord is _very_ good at getting people to open up. Where normally Caleb would skirt around the subject of his work, with Fjord he finds himself talking about his latest deal, and past frustrations with the screenwriting gig before he got his feet under him and learned how to negotiate for himself.

“I’ve seen some of your work, then,” Fjord says, sounding amazed but not _fannish_ , which Caleb cannot abide. “That two-season one about the pirates, the period piece—”

“ _The Salty Sea_. Yes, I was one of the primary contributing writers.” Caleb tests the shutter in front of him with a few sturdy tugs, and is pleased when it refuses to budge. “I’ll always be bitter about how the network handled that one. But at least we went out with a bang.”

“I’ll say.” Fjord is clearly impressed, but there’s something more to it—some warmth to his voice that sends soft, dangerous thoughts creeping into his mind. “I know it’s an older one, but I—folks really appreciated the ending.”

“Queer heroes very rarely have happy endings on screen—at least not when I first started writing seriously.” Caleb picks his way back down the ladder and rubs the sweat off his hands onto his leggings. He chances a look up, always cautious to bring up such topics in front of the average layman on the street, but Fjord’s brow is pleasantly rumpled with emotion and Caleb is shocked when he reaches out and takes Caleb’s hand in his.

“It means a lot. Films and shows were one of the few things we could reliably get access to out on the rig, and I remember that one fondly.”

Touched, Caleb squeezes his hand in return. “I’m glad to hear it. I hope this next project will have just as much of an impact, if not more.”

Fjord’s eyes sparkle, and he doesn’t let go of his hand. “I don’t suppose you could tell me any of the details?”

Caleb gnaws his lip. There’s an NDA sitting on his kitchen counter, waiting for his signature, but he hasn’t _technically_ made any promises yet…

“What if I got you a drink?” Fjord blurts, a little too quick to be suave or polished. His hand suddenly feels a bit damp; Caleb can empathize.

“I… don’t drink,” he says haltingly, regretful.

“Oh! Well, I mean—y’know, you must be warm after all that, and I, uh. I make a mean lemonade.”

Caleb breaks into a small smile—nay, a grin. “I could go for some lemonade, actually.”

“Great! Uhm, yeah, come on over! Er, now? Is now okay?”

Fjord’s blustering awkwardness would be annoying on almost anyone else, but on _him_ —large, perpetually cheerful, clearly trying to come across as un-creepy as possible—on him it works. Caleb smiles and lets go of his hand slowly. “Ja, that sounds lovely. Should I—I’m a bit sweaty, erm…”

“That’s all right, I don’t mind. A little workin’ sweat never hurt anyone.” He beams, and like an echo, or ripples on a pond, Caleb feels himself smiling back.

Fjord leads the way across the street and they are greeted at the door by Sally, who dances on her forepaws but doesn’t jump at all, soothing the nerves rattling around the back of Caleb’s skull. It’s a terrifyingly neat place for someone who so recently moved, suspiciously absent of knick-knacks and the general detritus one collects over a lifetime. Caleb supposes it’s a symptom of keeping temporary digs and living for long stretches at a time on a cramped oil rig in the middle of the ocean.

Speaking of which. There’s one painting in the whole of the place that Caleb can see, hung on an empty stretch of white wall above a mostly-empty drinks cart. It depicts a ship in full sail on a stormy sea, the rolling waves lit from behind by an arc of lighting that splits the black sky into disparate pieces. It’s both lifelike and not: a closer inspection reveals each brushstroke rendered with care, combining a surprising amount of color into a greater whole that coalesces as he steps back.

“I know,” Fjord says, emerging from behind the fridge door with his arms full of lemons and a brita filter. “A man spends his life on the sea, and yet he can’t escape it.”

“It’s a beautiful painting.” Caleb moves to the island in the center of the kitchen and perches uncertainly on one of the stools, watching Fjord assemble his ingredients. It’s a bit chilly now without the sun beating down on his back, and he’s grateful that he put his sweater back on. “Do you miss it?”

“The rig?”

“The sea.”

“Oh, every day. I mean, Rexxentrum is great, but it’s… well, landlocked.” Fjord shrugs. “But I had a few friends here, and I thought, why not try something different? For a year or two, see if I like it. Meet some people. Meet… someone.”

“Someone?” Caleb echoes, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down over his knuckles.

Fjord hums as he slices through a handful of lemons and wrenches them dry on an old-fashioned glass juicer. “I’ve lived in Port Damali all my life. I kind of know the scene. Trying to date usually turns into a friend of a friend of a friend, he knows your ex, you dated his brother…”

Caleb grimaces sympathetically. “I know how that goes. Well, I used to. I was a bit wilder in my youth, and Soltryce is a pretty small, tight-knit academy.”

“You went to Soltryce?” Fjord says, looking impressed.

“For a few years. It was… not for me.” Caleb shrugs. “I have a very good memory, and a good enough head for numbers, but engineering was not my passion. So I quit.”

“That takes guts.”

“It was an easy decision, in the end. I have kicked myself for it a few times over the years, but. In the long run I think it was the right thing.”

“I envy you, a little.” Fjord’s eyes are focused on the measuring of lemon juice to water, the bubble of sugar and water in a saucepan, but his voice is soft and measured as he plucks a few lavender buds from the potted plant near Caleb’s elbow and drops them into the simple syrup. “I’m gettin’ close to middle age and I still feel like I haven’t figured out what I’m truly passionate about.”

“Some people take longer to find it than others. But it is always worth the search.” Caleb gestures to the spartan kitchen. “And you have plenty of time now to figure it out.”

“Indeed. Thank you, Caleb, that was mighty thoughtful of you to say.”

“It is just the truth.” He realizes he’s coming off blunt again and winces. “Sorry, I am better at writing words than speaking them, sometimes.”

“Pshh. I think you’re doin’ just fine.” Fjord smiles at him over the saucepan and Caleb feels his heart skip a beat. “I appreciate you comin’ by, you know. I’ve been meaning to invite you over for ages now and it, uh. Just never seemed to be quite the right time.”

“You—you have?” Caleb asks, suddenly fascinated with a bit of fraying thread at the hem of his sweater. “Funny thing, I have also been meaning to do the same. I’m afraid I am a bit of a recluse… I am not used to company.”

“Well I hope you don’t mind _my_ company,” Fjord says warmly. “I certainly enjoy yours.”

Caleb’s cheeks heat, and he tries to tell himself it’s just the warmth of the hotplate and the smell of warm sugar. “I do. I’m, ah, out of practice, but. My friend Beau tells me I need to… stop out of my shell more often. So this seems as good an excuse as any.”

“Beau sounds like a wise friend,” Fjord says, a touch brittle all of a sudden. His friendly smile is still firmly affixed to his handsome face, but sharp at the edges, like an ill-fitting mask.

“She is. Wiser than she lets on.” Caleb shakes his head. “I do not deserve her, frankly, or her wife—they are kinder than I deserve.”

“Her—oh! Oh, no, I’m sure that’s not true.” The brittle mask cracks, and relief pours out of Fjord in waves like dollops of thick, sticky sugar-water. Caleb wants to laugh as the pieces fall into place, but that seems unkind.

“Beau is a lesbian, by the way. In case you were worried.”

“I! I wasn’t worried at all. Obviously.” Fjord harrumphs to himself as he switches off the hotplate. “I guess I’m pretty useless at subtlety, huh.”

“Only a little. It is… charming.” Caleb admires the flexion of his corded forearms as he pours lavender-tinged syrup in with the lemon water. “You said you were hoping to meet someone in Rexxentrum. Anyone in particular?”

“Not… not a specific person.” Fjord is blushing now, Caleb thinks, though it’s difficult to tell with his skin tone. “Just. Y’know. In general… I’m a bit rusty at the dating thing, but I think it’s about time I get my ass into gear before I commit myself to a life of bachelordom for good.”

Caleb taps his ink-spotted fingers against his lips, ruminating over the last hour or so. Fjord is good company, easy-going, has a good sense of humor… but more importantly, talking to him is _easy_. Caleb doesn’t think of himself as particularly sociable, but spending time with Fjord feels like spending time with an old friend, not a near-stranger. “Well,” he says, painfully aware he sounds like he’s outlining a business transaction but unable to help himself, “you know, I am also out of practice, but we get on well and I assure you with a little more preparation I can present myself rather nicely—”

Fjord’s bulging eyes stop him in his tracks. “Hang on. Are you sayin’ you… want to date?”

“I suppose I am. We’re both too old to beat around the bush, aren’t we, Fjord?”

Fjord’s brow knots itself together into some complicated pattern. “I—if you’re just offerin’ out of pity—”

“Of course not! If anything it’s a cry for pity from _you_.”

Fjord actually looks affronted at this. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re incredibly smart, and well-spoken, and good-looking…”

“All right, now you’re laying it on a bit thick.” Caleb sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I won’t be offended if you decline, you know. I’m aware that chemistry has a large role to play in these types of exchanges and—Fjord? What are you doing?”

Fjord, who has come around the island to stand beside him, reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind Caleb’s ear. “Is it all right if I kiss you, Caleb?”

Caleb licks his lips, feeling his hastily-erected cavalier attitude falter and fade. “I… yes.”

Fjord leans in and their mouths meet. His lips are surprisingly soft, and the hand on his cheek smells of lemons. Caleb melts into it. He can’t help it—it’s been a long time since he’s shared such a tender moment with someone, and Fjord’s gentle, welcoming nature extends to this sort of activity, too; he makes it _easy_. Caleb hasn’t kissed anyone in years, but suddenly he’s imbued with confidence. He kisses back hungrily, letting the spark of desire flow through him as he wraps his arms around Fjord’s neck and holds him close to explore the inside of his mouth with his tongue.

“Well,” Fjord says when they finally part, a tough raggedly. His hair is rumpled from Caleb’s eager hands and the warm gold of his eyes has been largely eclipsed by the black swell of his pupils. “How’s that for chemistry?”

Caleb swallows. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” he whispers, thumb to the plush, kiss-bruised center of Fjord’s lower lip. Fjord smiles.

“Apology accepted.” He kisses Caleb’s thumb and extricates himself to tend to the lemonade. “Want to relocate to the living room and… discuss this further?”

Caleb covers his flushed cheeks with his palms for a moment, relishing the relative chill. “Ja, that would be lovely.”

Fjord laughs at him for his sudden shyness, but it’s not cruel laughter. If anything it’s commiseratory laughter, the sort that says, _yeah, I know how you feel. I feel the same. Let’s figure it out together._ The thought makes his shoulders relax and he follows Fjord to the living room with anticipation in his belly instead of fear, tasting lavender on the back of his tongue.


End file.
